Chiaroscuro
by Werefox Alchemist
Summary: In which the complexities of Hiruma's soul are discussed, and art admired. Just another insane HiruxSena drabblish thing from me.


Chi-a-ro-scu-ro, _n_. A kind of painting or drawing using only light and shade.

* * *

It seemed to Sena that Deimon High School had picked up a number of American things, by far the best of which was football. Football had made him who he was inside. Even the American burgers they served sometimes in the cafeteria were pretty good.

But, and he had given this much thought and due consideration, he decided he drew the line at mandatory art classes. For one thing, he was completely hopeless at everything they tried to teach him. His paints blended together into a muddy brown the second they touched a canvas, his drawings always came out as smudged blotches of graphite, and his sculptures remained solid lumps of clay, despite whatever he attempted to do with them.

His teacher thought modern art was just glorified garbage, which was a shame because if there had been a unit on it, perhaps he wouldn't be failing so badly.

Hiruma had put his foot down. The school wasn't letting anyone play that didn't get good grades, so he had made it perfectly clear that anyone planning on failing could get the hell out now, or face the terrible consequences.

Sadly, this wasn't going anywhere. He was really struggling with the whole concept of sketch drawings, and worse still, he was totally strapped for inspiration.

The captain had said in no uncertain terms that, since the "damn manager" would refuse to let the subject die if he should sit back passively as Sena failed his class for the sake of the team, Sena was barred from practice until he could finish his homework and make it look like anything. Also, he was to do it quickly. The devil bats needed their ace player, and he liked to think that perhaps a part of Hiruma needed him too. He sat passively on the grassy lawn, under the shade of a cherry tree in full bloom, his mind searching the bland scenery for possible subject matter.

The flashing façade of the casino clubhouse stuck out like a sore thumb, of course, the mascot on the sign glowering out at him. It was still amazing that Hiruma had gotten away with the ritzy makeover; this sort of thing had got to be against school rules, let alone several provincial building codes. Such as: don't build something that's a complete eyesore. It was a mocking reminder that, until this torture was over, he was forbidden to do the one thing that made him feel wanted, useful. He would have preferred one of Hiruma's penalty games.

A clatter of frenzied gunfire rang out, shattering the once peaceful silence and a window somewhere. "Move faster, you damn lunks!" Hiruma shouted over the noise, apparently directing the fifty-yard dash. "That's it; I'm taking a break. And when I get back, every single one of you had better have pumped up your times!"

There were many principles of art and design. Lines, for example, that the careful observer would note being traced over the pad of paper, without the unwitting artist happening to notice. Shading, as such that is filling in the form. Texture, outlining the fly-away hair and the threads of the shirt fabric.

Chiaroscuro. It was the blend of light and dark, subtly and plainly, that came to make a more perfect whole. The word itself reminded Sena a bit of the demonic quarterback. For all his venom, for all his deceit, for all his cruelty and abuse, there was an equal part of goodness somewhere inside him. It showed through, occasionally, a ray of light in the storm.

Hiruma stomped around to the clubhouse front, and was about to open the door when he sighted Sena. "Not done with your damn homework yet, kuso chibi?" he snarled, glaring at him menacingly. Sena cowered a bit, not aware this would only encourage him, wishing that he would just go away. He was so intimidating, with his guns… and his deranged smile… and his nimble fingers that any person in their right mind would die to have running over their skin…

Not anyone, any girl. Not him. Definitely not him.

Denial could stay a river in Egypt for all Sena cared.

Hiruma strode up, probably to see what he'd got so far. Oh damn. It occurred to Sena that he had been drawing, but he had been doing it subconsciously, and he had no idea what of. Curious, he looked down…

Squeaking in fright, he struggled to hide the sheet of paper before Hiruma could see. Predictably, he failed, and the devil quarterback grabbed the top of the tablet to stop him.

Nobody said anything for a moment, Hiruma probably deciding which gun to shoot him with. This was totally embarrassing, Sena thought. It was a portrait of Hiruma himself, and, he had to say, rather good. Much better than his other attempts at sketching, and it did bear the captain's likeness. Still… the Hiruma in the picture looked absolutely luscious, and there was something wrong with that.

Hiruma snorted. "Huh." A pause. "It needs something."

"W-what?" Sena stammered, somewhat relieved.

Hiruma stared at the art for a moment longer before beginning to saunter towards the clubhouse door again. "Figure it out yourself, damn pipsqueak," he growled. "I'm not your personal muse."

Sena watched him enter the clubhouse, slamming the door hard enough to make the frame shake and the hinges rattle. What could be missing? He'd drawn in Hiruma's earrings, his pointed fangs, and even one of his sleek, dangerous guns. So what had he missed? What had been glossed over? Every detail was unconsciously scrupulous.

Sena was still watching fifteen minutes later, when Hiruma went back to "training" the tea, some of whom were fresh recruits. He just didn't see it. Maybe he should try coloring it in?

And, then, why had he been drawing Hiruma at all? It wasn't as if he was a particularly pleasant person to think about, though he did make a nice model. Why on Earth…

Oh.

Oh.

Sena sucked the end of his pencil, deep in thought. Did Hiruma know? Could he have guessed something about him that even he hadn't figured out until just now? That wasn't possible. Even the great Yoichi Hiruma, master of data mining and extortion, couldn't have found that out.

Well, that was a thought. Perhaps that was what he'd meant. It was a long shot, but not out of the realm of the plausible. Who knew? It was a crazy world out there. Nothing left to lose.

Night came early, or at least evening did, and Hiruma was still hanging around the clubhouse. The day had been… interesting. That kid could be damn good at art, given the right motivation. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, feet propped up against the table, arms folded behind his head. There was a glass of vodka, half-drained, next to his feet, but he ignored it. Closing his eyes, he slipped onto the world of his wildest fantasies, reveling in the alone time, while in his head he had company.

…Which ended abruptly and rudely by the click of a door opening. "What now, fucking shorty?"

Sena stepped up to him, shyly. "I…er…"

"What?"

Skipping the step of actually telling him, Sena bent over and, blushing furiously, kissed him. When, out of shock, Hiruma did not react, he pulled away and tried to leave. Hiruma reeled him back, returning the affection with twice the power and lust, pulling him down into his lap. "What did you want, chibi?" he asked, grinning devilishly.

Sena cuddled against his chest, eyes closed in happiness. "I figured out what was missing."


End file.
